In The Snow
by Bryher
Summary: Ficlets about the Knights. No plot whatsoever, just everything. New Comparison
1. In The Snow

Disclaimer; I do not (much to my infinite and wholesome sadness) own any of the Knights mentioned in this short fiction.

Enjoy!

Ps, it's just a oneshot.

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In The Snow

The snow fall was light at first, unnoticeable. It was only when a single snowflake drifted down and settled on Tristan's nose that it was seen and felt. The scout grumbled, flicking the offending flake of his tanned face, snuggling deeper into his cloak. Galahad watched, amused, as the sleeping scout, ever stoic in waking hours, was disgruntled by a single snowflake. The snores of the others around him, Bors especially, reminded him he was not alone.

Gawain sighed and shifted beside him, his blond, tangled hair becoming speckled with snow. It was falling thicker and faster, though the Knights under the trees didn't really feel it. They were all wrapped up in cloaks and saddle blankets.

The youngest knight shivered, wrapping his own saddle blanket around his bare legs, scowling as he remembered the guffaws he had suffered when he'd first worn it. There had been many a long joke about his 'feminine side' after that. He looked all his friends over in turn, thinking about their lives. Rome had not been kind, stationing them in the far north, although, the young man thought, at least they weren't in one of the forts on the other side of the wall. It was fourteen years to the day into their service, and they'd lost so many. Now, he noted somewhat sadly, it was only seven. Tristan gave a sudden, light snore, and Galahad grinned. Reaching out into the light snowfall, he raked together as much as he could with his cold hands and made a small, slightly muddy ball.

Tongue sticking out of the side of his mouth, Galahad concentrated, flicking his curls from his eyes as he took aim. The small projectile took seconds to hit the tree trunk above the slumbering scout, spraying mud and snow onto the fierce fighter. Galahad leant back and shut his eyes with lightning speed as he heard Tristan wake and swear quietly; it took all his self control not to burst out laughing when Tristan muttered, "Damn Woads."

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I would really appreciate reviews, I know it's not long, but I'd like to know whether you liked it or not. 


	2. Independence

Remember the film? When Arthur breaks the news for the final fight, Gawain answers for both himself and Galahad. Galahad storms away. This is what happens afterwards.

Independence

"Galahad-wait, look, I didn't…" Gawain skidded to a halt, panting, as the youngest knight whirled about, eyes fierce. "Didn't what Gawain? Make yet _another_ choice for me? Didn't give me a chance to speak for myself?" Gawain stepped back, a hurt look flashing across his rugged face.

"No…I, I…" He took a deep breath, looking at his feet, uncertain. Galahad regarded his long-time friend with a calculating look, before turning his back and walking away.

Gawain bit his lip, staring after the younger man, memories of his brothers flashing behind his blue eyes. "I wanted to watch over you, like I never did them."

I think I might make this a sort of ficlet story; bits of the knights lives that we never saw in the film. Review and tell me what you think, please!


	3. Heroics

Reviewers; Thank you very much for taking the time to review, and many of you will be pleased to know that I am indeed using this as a ficlet post.

This will be the last update for almost two weeks, as I'm going on holiday, so this is a sort of goodbye for now!

I'll be adding the description for each new ficlet every time it's updated, as well as the bio for In The Snow. I'll put it in brackets to avoid confusion.

A little angsty, I suppose.

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Heroics

The knights were gathered on the wall top, looking out over the sea of lights that heralded the arrival of Cerdic's Horde. Silence prevailed. Worry stood out in each mans eyes, certainty reflected in the windows to their souls. Gawain spoke up, his voice resonating with pain and anger.

"You know what happens now, don't you?"

"Arthur stays." Tristan sighed, resting an arm on the battlement, rubbing tired eyes with a calloused hand. Lancelot clenched his jaw, slamming a hand down on the wall, snapping; "It's always with the _damn_ heroics! This isn't his fight!"

Gawain snorted, derisive.

"Since when did Arthur need it to be his fight to get involved?" Galahad asked somewhat mulishly, railing against the tether to responsibility once again. "It's always been this way."

"Aye, remember when Percival was getting bloodied by those soldiers?" Bors asked, eyes unusually sombre as he regarded the lights. "Perce was furious he stepped in." The small smile spoke of lost brotherhood and the sadness of knowing.

"I'll speak to him!" Lancelot exclaimed, adamant. "I'll change his mind." Galahad looked at him incredulously. "Lance, you know he won't listen."

"I'll _make_ him listen!"

"Lancelot," Tristan said firmly, "Stop. We all know what has to be done." The curly haired womaniser glared at the rugged scout, fire in his eyes. "Whether we like it or not." Tristan whispered, looking away again. Gawain closed his eyes, pained.

"He doesn't deserve this." He murmured, staring at the stones of his fifteen year prison. "It shouldn't be his life to be taken."

Sudden shouts of "Make way!" Echoed against the rough stone, and the Knights looked at their Commander, their brother in arms. Silence prevailed again, Arthur's heroics rendering them dumb. But they knew what to do. The small smiles that were exchanged the next day as they prepared to 'ride away' spoke more than words could ever; even a simple man was capable of boundless heroics.

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Thought I should make it a good'un as I'm not updating for a while. Hope you liked, please review to tell me. 


	4. I'm not a friggin' Scout!

**Argghh! **

This is all Ailis-70's fault! Grins

I was attacked rather brutally by a plot bunny at work, and this is the product of that. I leave for holiday tomorrow, so I'm at work this morning, joy to the Gods… but yesh, anyhoo, this is the product of the rather brutal plot bunny, and it is dedicated to Ailis-70 for that!

Did anyone ever wonder what happened as the knights were dismissed by the bishop. It couldn't have taken them the space of half an hour to get totally ratted. Where did they go? What did they do?

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"I'm not a friggin' Scout!"

One by one, the knights filed from the hall, casting various contemptuous glances back at the Bishop as they did. What the Roman Bishop didn't see, was that they filed outside, and stayed there.

Lancelot shut the door behind him, and was immediately poked by in irate Bors. "Ye couldn't have left the door open just a little bit?" He hissed. Lancelot poked him back, whispering, "Shut it and listen!"

Had anyone come around the corner, it would have made for a comical sight. Six fully grown men crouching at various heights, leaning their ears to the door, listening intently. This had been the automatic response since they were children. If they couldn't find out by being told, they would listen in.

However, listening in wasn't going as planned…

"I can't hear anything!" Galahad whined, yelping quietly as Gawain booted his behind gently from his higher vantage point and muttered, "Shh!"

"If you'd listen, you'd hear." Dagonet admonished gently, patting the youngest knights soft curls soothingly.

"I'm not a friggin' scout!" Galahad hissed trying to bat Dagonet's hand away. He jolted forwards as he received another boot in his behind, this time from Tristan.

"No, but I am, and I can't hear anything over your whining." The dark man muttered as Galahad rubbed his behind ruefully. Lancelot hissed at them all, pressing his head more firmly against the crack in the door jamb.

Galahad muttered under his breath, the words "Brooding Boy" clearly audible. With a growl, Tristan shoved Galahad, who fell into Bors' legs, who crashed onto Dagonet, who in turn fell onto one of the damnable Roman displays that were oft set about the fort. With a crash, it clattered to the floor. The men looked at each other, and as one, sprinted away down the hall, out into the courtyards.

It was Tristan who burst out laughing first, making the other stare, then chuckle, until they were leaning on each other for support as they howled with laughter.

"Ironic!" Lancelot spluttered as he wiped tears of mirth from his eyes. "The Scout gives us away." Tristan looked apologetic for a moment, then shrugged, a slight smile playing around his mouth.

"Come on." Said Dagonet bracingly, slinging an arm around Bors' shoulders. "Drink awaits, as do the women."

For what they thought of as the last time, the knights strode off together to the bar, laughing and taking amongst themselves, unaware that Arthur's knowing smile, upon his mouth as the Bishop left for his chambers, had been the same for fifteen years.

The empty room resonated with Arthur's small chuckle. "They'll never change."

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Please review-this really is the last update. Thanks! xx 


	5. Losing Family

'Lo everyone! No, I haven't fallen off the face of the earth, I was merely on holiday. I had a marvellous, relaxing time, and was attacked by a particularly vicious plot bunny on one rainy afternoon. So, whipping out the trusty pad and pen I keep handy, I sat in my tent and wrote this.

After Dagonet's death, there was a loss. Loss everyone felt, but losing another brother becomes too much sometimes.

Angst, people, angst! 

Losing Family. 

"Stay with me, Dag! Stay with me…" Bors sobbed, clinging to the giant-like shoulders of his best friend like a small child. Dagonet would never open his kind eyes again. Bors moaned as he fell back slightly, staring at Dag's cold, sodden frame.

Furious, Guinevere shot at the smirking Saxon Lordling, grazing his face. Glaring at the knights, he slunk away with the remainder of his army, leaving a ringing silence.

Arthur closed his eyes as though in supplication to his god, biting his lips so hard that they broke and bled in his mouth, the coppery tang filling his head.

Galahad, the youngest, bit his lips too, though he was holding back a sob. He whirled around, kicking a lump of snow and screamed, pain and anguish echoing around the lake. As he fell to his knees, Gawain placed a hand on his shoulder, blue eyes filled with a quiet pain that could not be consoled.

Surprisingly, Tristan comforted Lancelot, who was staring blankly at his saddle, inches away from his destrier, his back to the others. Placing a gentle hand on the curly-haired knight's forearm, the silent man looked pained, tears glimmering in his dark eyes.

Guinevere looked uncertain, as though she didn't want to witness this grief in the men that she'd thought invincible. What of her fathers stories? Where were they now? In her world, you died and went to the halls of your forefathers, soon to be reunited with old kin and later, your friends and family. She looked at Arthur, still biting his lips.

"You'll see him again." She whispered softly, placing a careful hand on his bowed head. "He is not truly gone, he lives in your heart." Ignoring her, Arthur brushed away her hand gently and turned away, striding into the woods.

Tristan found him first. Well, Tristan always found him. He was the only one who looked. Arthur's tear filled, reddened eyes recognised the Scout as he strode to the older man. Black boots and a leather jerkin that reached far to his knees were all he saw at first, before Tristan knelt and pulled his commander into a strong embrace. Arthur cried. Long, noisy sobs that echoed around the thicket. Tristan never said anything, knowing that the man he thought of as a brother needed only to have a family's arms around him. So he held him, as he'd always done, and thought with tear-filled eyes about the new grave that would be dug when they got back to the fort. Another grave in the family graveyard. The only family he'd ever known.


	6. Moonlight

**Requested by Ailis-70.**

**(Yes, I do requests, within reason)**

**Gawain's POV.**

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Moonlight

I am cold, hungry and annoyed. I trust Arthur with every bone in my body-he's never led us astray, but I'll be one of the first to say that he has an uncanny ability to start things he shouldn't.

It was like the first time we met him. A soldier was going to beat Galahad for cheek. I'd never seen anyone move so fast-Arthur fairly decked the man. Beat him with his own whip.

He earned my trust in that moment.

All of us learned to trust him, in time. Arthur is not a bad man.

Watching him threaten the fat Lord with the jowls only amuses me for so long, and it is in moments like this that I think about the time we've spent in the Roman Service. I've got so many brothers now. I'm honoured to know them, I would die for them. I think about what I'll do after my service ended. Something to do with Sarmatia, of that I'm certain. Arthur is freeing a village man, the poor elder is ancient. I don't know why these Romans call us barbarians and pagans. They have none of my respect, only Arthur commands that.

Oh, hello. Movement.

At first, I thought it a simple store cellar. The smell was disgusting, wafting up in horrid gusts of sickening, hot air. I looked around at Galahad, before sliding from the saddle, furious. All of us knew that smell. You don't fight for fifteen years and not learn the smell of death. Galahad took my horses' reigns, scowling at the monks that had appeared from nowhere, squealing about their God and his Temple.

Rolling my eyes, I followed Lancelot, who handed a torch back to me. Showing chains and whips in their bloodied glory as it's light fell. I recoiled slightly, before straightening. Lancelot was brewing for a tantrum, his jaw was clenching and unclenching. We'd all learned each other inside out.

Dagonet rumbled in fury behind me.

I stared.

'How can anyone do this?' I thought, horrified, as the corpse of a young, emaciated woman chained to the wall fell into my torchlight. Bile rose in my throat. Words dimmed as I stared, wide eyed into her dead eyes. I'd seen death, I had run into it blindly, and come out unscathed. I'd never looked at a scene such as this. Fast movement caught my eyes. Grim satisfaction swam through me as Lancelot's blade came from the monk's body coated in the life-blood of a 'Sinner'.

Horror, sorrow, anger, burning heat behind my eyes. I wanted to run the snivelling, puce excuse for a man behind me though and decimate his bleeding body. Arthur began checking cages, ordering us to see if any lived.

"By the smell, they are all dead!" I said loudly, covering my mouth and nose as Lance's torchlight fell on an old man, lying cramped, hopeless, and very much dead. Dag, fury in every line of his face, began flinging open cages and the like, checking. "You…" I growled, "You even _move_, you'll join him."

Anger made my work swifter, thrusting the torch into alcoves and nooks, checking for signs of life. Tears welled in my eyes as body after body flickered in the firelight.

Only two were saved.

I was last out. Shoving the snivelling monks before me, I resisted the urge to stab my dagger into them, I had it unsheathed before I knew what I was doing.

On Arthur's command to wall the men back up, I grinned, feral. I wanted them to suffer. Mounting my horse, I looked sidelong at Galahad. He looked at me as though I'd sprouted another ear.

"You want them walled up?" He asked, incredulous.

I felt fierce. "Aye. You weren't down there."

_It would be many, many moons before I thought back on that day. And now, I'm here, in Camelot, my wife sleeping soundly in my bed, Galahad a few doors down, my friends and family around me. Moonlight changes everything. Tristran said once, "It's only light, but light can mean so much." It did. Thinking back on the lives to took, I let quiet tears spill from my eyes, we'd all lost so much, though I realised, with a pang, my opinions hadn't changed since that day. I hope those monks starved. The land we're building is vast, and come the Apocalypse, I would never let anything like that happen in my Borough._

_Tristran was right, moonlight brings back thoughts and memories we'd sooner forget, but it's only light. But light means so much. In the firelight of my torch, I saw things that I never wanted to recall. Light can bring as much pain as the dark. Sighing, a small smile on my lips, I slid back into bed, hauling my beautiful Sarmatian woman, the woman I'd hunted Sarmatia for, the woman I'd brought back to Britain closer, I closed my eyes, and drifted into sleep._

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Ailis-70: Hope that was alright, Please tell me if you would like any changes! 


	7. I Just Need A hug

Very short, very strange very mad. Sorry…

Naturally, our boy isn't worried about death. What is it his mind wandered to after the Tavern Scene? Hmm?

I Just Need A Hug.

I, Tristran, The Scout, the man who enjoys killing, need a hug.

I know Galahad didn't mean it, he's always having these temper tantrums. But I can't help but feel hurt. I followed Dag to prepare, but left him in preference for the stables. So here I am. On my lonesome. Wanting a hug.

It's always been like this! Galahad…poxy little youngest that he is gets hugged daily! By _everyone!_ _Everyone_ I tell you! Gawain, Dag, Bors, Arthur-_Arthur_, for Gods sake!

Ergh.

Deeply unfair.

Feeling sorry for myself, I wondered briefly whether I could hug my bird. After a moment, I shrugged.

"I should get a dog."

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Please, please review. Thankee. 


	8. Scouting

Weird bit of nothingness that poked my brain today at rugby training, (where, might I add, there was a _rather_ nice young man who had curly, blonde hair and looked like a slightly younger Galahad-the girls group was as agog as two gogs!) and so I wrote it down.

Summary; Tristan is ill and can't scout-Galahad is sent instead.

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Scouting **_

For what seemed like the hundredth time that day, Galahad scowled. Cold, shivering and grumpy, the handsome knight dismounted, leading his horse over a treacherous stretch of rocky mountainside, the wind whistling unpleasantly in his ears.

'_Why on this Earth does Tristan like this?' _He thought, looking up to the cloudy skies. _'He's mad.'_

Suddenly, sharply, the ground betrayed him, sending the man sprawling onto his rear in an explosion of colourful Sarmatian curses. Struggling to his feet, Galahad was rewarded with a soaked behind and a bruised ego, while his horse nickered in what he would later insist was laughter. Yanking the destriers tether, he continued down the slope, occasionally muttering.

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"What the bloody _hell!_?" Galahad yelled, staring manically at the mark he had made in a tree some three hours ago. The same tree to which he'd just arrived. 

Yelling, he kicked at a tree.

Howling, he plonked himself down and hugged his foot as close as he could manage.

"Why _me_?" He asked the skies, heavy with rain clouds. "What did I do to deserve this? Why couldn't he have sent Gareth or Kay? Bors or Dagonet?" Leaning back, he took a small chunk of bread from a pocket and absentmindedly chewed, staring at nothing in particular while his horse grazed peacefully on a small tussock of grass. Finally, sighing, he pushed himself to his feet, rubbing his eyes tiredly, and mounted his horse. Cocking his head, he looked at a strange moss pattern he'd noticed in the trees; the trees around him were all mossy, but only on one side. The other side had clean bark.

Wait.

"AYAYAHAHA!" Galahad yelled, his horse stirring panicked under him.

"_Remember, Galahad, moss only grows on the north side of a tree. Sometimes it'll be on the other side, but it's always thickest on the north side of the tree." _His father's words echoing in his head, Galahad proudly kicked his horse and set off in the south west direction, hoping to reach a mile fort by nightfall.

He did. The short ride back to Vindolanda seemed to take forever, but as the exhausted man dismounted and handed his reigns to Jols, he grinned. Home was still there in his mind. He may not remember as much as young Gareth, but it was there. Maybe returning home wasn't such a bad plan.

Please review. :grins:


	9. Agitation

Agitation. 

"Gawain?"

"What?"

"Gawain?"

"What?"

"Gawain?"

"_What_, Galahad!" Gawain yelled, turning around, glaring at the smaller boy. Galahad peered up through his curls, a mischievous grin on his face.

"Nuthin'."

"You little-…"

Galahad yelled with laughter as the blonde dropped his tack and sprinted a short way after him. Gawain swore loudly, ceasing his pursuit and going back to his tack.

Silence reigned in the stables, Gawain's mumblings on how much he wanted to strangle the youngest boy of the group echoing now and then.

Something dropped down onto Gawain's head, bouncing off his locks and dropping to the floor. Ignoring it, thinking some small grain had come loose from the hayloft, Gawain continued to clean his tack.

There it was again.

And again.

Looking up, scowling, Gawain saw nothing but the slats of the hayloft. Shaking his head, he reached for his brush-"Mnff.."

The muffled giggle could have belonged to no other.

"GALAHAD!" Gawain roared, sprinting for the door. Thundering outside, he chased the yelling Galahad all over the fort, before catching him.

"What?" Galahad whimpered as he was held threateningly over a water trough. "What did I do!"

"You threw things at me, you little bugger." Gawain growled, dipping the curly haired boy further towards that water. Galahad grabbed at the shirt of the older boy, yelling, "What! I did not!" The honesty and confusion that echoed in the smaller boys tone halted his descent towards the trough.

"What…?" Gawain trailed off, looking perplexed.

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Tristan grinned, making the giggling noise again, softly. Clapping a hand over his mouth, he let the rest of the small pebbles drop from his palms through the slats. He did love agitating.

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Cardeia; I Haven't seen the extended version of the film, so I haven't seen Galahad riding around! How annoyed was I about that! Hope you liked though. 


	10. Attic Sanctuary

Attic Sanctuary.

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"Tristran? You in here?" Dagonet called uncertainly into the gloom of the Barrack Attics, peering around. He would never understand why the Scout spent so much time in this gloomy, dusty roofspace. The boy was a mystery.

Silence met his call; stillness met his keen eyes, and so, with a sigh, the mighty man backed down the ladders, resuming his search for the wayward teen in more pleasant surroundings.

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Tristran breathed a sigh of relief, leaning against a wooden support beam weakly. It was too close. His dark eyes had adjusted to the dark, and had no trouble in spotting the massive frame of the older knight; that moment of realising that he was close to discovery had his heart in his throat.

Waiting until he could no longer hear the footfalls of his brother knight, Tristran then padded quietly over to the small space in the far wall of the attic. When he'd first come up here, he'd realised that the attic was too small for the size of the barrack, and had explored the place until he found the gap. Sliding his eleven year old frame into the hole had been no bother then, but squeezing his eighteen year old muscular frame through now was a slightly different matter. Straightening, a soft smile lit his features, along with a sliver of sunlight that pierced the tiles of the roof. On sunny days, Tristan would remove tiles, and on wet ones, replace them. This was his Sanctuary. The end room had spare furniture in it, and, an eleven year old Tristan had realised with glee, someone had forgotten about the place. So, a bed, table and chairs, desk and chest were placed about the reasonably sized, slanted-roofed room. Beeswax candles sat in holders on the desk, along with a whetstone and a dagger, a chair halfway pulled out. Returning to his previous seat, Tristan looked about, picking up his whetstone and dagger with a small grin. Spare clothes resided in the chest, along with a small wineskin and a bag of apples, swords strapped to the lid. The bed was immaculately made, a large shirt folded on the pillow for him to sleep in. The floors were swept clean, a pile of dust lying in one corner. Tristan returned to his work, pleased he had somewhere that no one else knew about; somewhere that no one else could find him.

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"You find him?" Galahad asked a tired Dagonet as the man slumped in a chair. The inn was starting to fill, the sunset bringing the patrons in. The giant shook his head. "No, I don't know where he could have gone." Lancelot looked up from his more recent whore, a knowing look in his eyes. Before anyone noticed, he ousted the whore and left the tavern, heading for the barracks.

"Where do you think he's off to?" A bewildered Gawain asked Galahad, Bors and Dagonet, before taking a swig from his mug. The others shrugged, grinning as Gareth and Bedivere began a game of knife toss. Lancelot and the wayward Scout were quickly forgotten.

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Silently, Lancelot crept over the attic, breathing lightly, stepping in Tristran's very own footsteps. Shaking his head with a rueful grin, he wondered how Dagonet hadn't noticed the prints in the dust in the first place. They led to a small hole in the wall, small enough to cause the person trying to get through discomfort, but big enough to get through nonetheless. A small smile graced the handsome womaniser's mouth as he knelt down and peered through the hole. Tristran was framed as he swung his sabre around in a dance of death, the blade thrumming quietly through the air. Lancelot straightened, creeping back over the attic, sliding down the ladders with ease.

"Seven years he's been going there." He muttered to himself as he left for the bar once more; "Hermit."

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Heh, i thought this up randonly at about 12.40 this morning, which is why it's posted so late. Please review; i thought it was kinda sweet..


	11. Discovery

I know the knights probably left the fort straight after the battle at Badon Hill (once Tristran and Lancelot were buried), but humour me.

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Discovery.

"DAMN MOUSE!"

Gawain watched in amusement as Galahad crashed around the barrack room, overturning beds and falling over blankets as he chased the furry bane of his existence. The mouse had plagued him for a few months now; Galahad hated mice, and was determined that this one should die. Lying comfortably on his bed, Gawain's head turned first one way, and then the other as a screaming Galahad ran _away_ from the suddenly rabid creature. The mouse dashed past Galahad, (who was sitting with his knees drawn up on the only not overturned bed other than Gawain's) and fled up the side of the attic ladder.

Galahad's eyes gleamed. "Right." He growled, taking off up the ladder after the mouse.

"Galahad." Gawain called in exasperation, sitting up as he heard his young friend scrambling around, coughing, above his head. "You're going to die of dust if you don't give up!" Galahad gave a sudden cry of triumph, and a loud thud resonated from the other side of the barrack ceiling. Silence.

"Gal? Galahad?" A worried tone edged into Gawain's voice as he stood up, gingerly picking his way across the ruins of the barrack room. As his booted foot ascended the first rung of the ladder, Galahad's shocked voice floated down from the small hole in the ceiling.

"Gawain. Come look at this." Hurrying now, Gawain shimmied his broad shoulders into the loft, choking slightly as the dust Galahad and the mouse had disrupted momentarily coated his throat. Holding a sleeve over his mouth and nose, he called; "Where are you?" Into the gloom.

"Here. Come look." Ducking his head, the blonde knight made his way to the end of the loft, and grinned wryly to see his friend squeezing himself through a small hole. Looking around, Gawain wondered why the loft seemed so much smaller than the rest of the barracks.

"Galahad, you idiot, get out of there." A hand stretched back out of the hole, beckoning. Sighing, Gawain lay in the dust and dragged himself through, groaning as he got his shoulders momentarily stuck in the small space. "You'd better have something import-…" His voice trailed away as he finished dusting himself down and looked up. The sizeable room was covered in dust, the furniture and neatly made bed having clearly not been slept in nor used for a few months. Small shafts of sunlight lit the gloom, damp patches on the floor where the rain had gotten in; tiles were stacked neatly next to a chest, which lay at the end of the bed.

"What on earth…?" Gawain whispered as Galahad went over to the chest, lifting the lid gingerly, answering the question as he lifted a dagger; a familiar dagger that could not have belonged to anyone else.

"Tristan." Galahad murmured grimly, remembering his dark-eyed friends preference for solitude. "This was where he'd vanish to." Gawain pulled out one of the chairs at the table and sat don heavily, looking around in wonder. Sadness filled his heart, poor Tristran. He was always so solitary, and this was his Sanctuary. The two friends spent the remainder of the day in Tristan's loft, while an inquisitive mouse sat chewing a dried sliver of apple, watching, as always, never missing a thing. Not all Knights return as great horses.

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Please review. 


	12. Training

An attempt to describe a training session...heh...i did try, though it doesn't really seem like it.

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Training.

The bright droplets slid down his back, running in between tanned shoulder blades, shimmering over the firm softness to reach black breeches, working their way into the fabric, dampening it. He moved gracefully, a series of movements taught in hand to hand combat, his torso rippling as he twisted and turned, leg sweeping up into a kick as the fire of the sun set a fire in his blood. The bright sunlight, unusual for Britain, had taken everyone by surprise; a week had passed in broad sunshine. Bors grumbled from the shade, a wet cloth plastered to his shoulders, which were beet-red, his face a similar shade. A soft smile tilted his mouth upwards as his friend mumbled about the heat. Some didn't take to the sun as well as others. Sighing, he sauntered over to the water barrel, dipping a calloused hand in and splashing water onto his neck and chest, relishing the feel of the coldness running over his sculpted muscles, soothing the ache that came with the weather. Bare-chested, wearing only loose black britches, Tristan leant both hands on either side of the barrel, bowing his head and arching his back to soothe the muscles there. Sweat ran down his brow, and, a hand reaching down again into the barrel, it was swiftly washed away by water. The droplets slipped from his pert nose to drip back into the barrel, watched by keen, long lashed eyes. Looking up, the Scout observed his fellow knights lazily. Lancelot jogged past, lapping the training paddock, his curls plastered to his head and the back of his neck, muscles shining in the heat, followed closely by the broad shouldered Gawain, whose hair was loosely tied at the nape of his neck, tanned skin showing signs of burning.

Galahad was nearby, shooting into a mark, arms powerfully shaped in the sunlight; several fort wenches had gathered to watch the knights as they trained; several stood or leant on the fence near Galahad. Grinning, Tristan strolled to his belongings, nodding to Dagonet, who, sensibly, kept to the shade, honing weaponry. Reaching for his shirt, he tied it loosely around his hips, realising he'd lost weight again and would have to see Vanora about his britches; they were slung low about his hips, showing his toned abdomen and pointed hips, where two more arrows adorned the skin. Taking one last look around the yard, he left for the bathhouse, looking forwards to sliding his heated skin into a cold bath.

* * *

Hmm. I was going to describe the bath house too, but I thought I'd leave you all damning my very existence. For Tristran lovers! I tried to describe him as much as possible, but I wasn't sure about the result. We've had rather a lot of our Beloved Scout lately, haven't we! 


	13. Of Lancelot, Mud and Feathers

For Cardeia, who has been _cheating_ on our beloved Lancelot. lol!

* * *

"…And what's more! If I catch any of your damned Knights in here again, scrounging, there will be a reckoning!" the cook bellowed at a terrified Arthur. The man was intimidating. Taller than Dagonet with a puce face and no neck, he carried a meat cleaver around, ordering the Fort servants to do this and that. Said cleaver was now pointing threateningly at the twenty one year old Commander's throat. Arthur nodded as the Cook went into another rant, trying to take it all in. Looking over the man's shoulder for a moment, his heart froze. Lancelot, his right hand man, was standing behind the Cook, pulling faces, an apple in one hand and a wineflask in the other. Black curls fell into warm, laughing eyes, the high, sculpted cheekbones crinkled in a smile, his white teeth showing as he danced a small jig behind the spouting Roman, waving his arms manically.

The Cook realized that Arthur was not looking at him.

Lancelot's face changed to one of shock, and the eighteen year old dived behind a counter, striving not to be seen, andunwittingly landed on a crate of chickens; it burst open, sending feathers and squawking birds everywhere. "YOOOU!" Howled Cookie, and Lancelot dashed out, covered in feathers, pursued by the spitting cook. Arthur couldn't help it. He roared with laugher.

* * *

Grinning, Lancelot slammed the door to his room, peeling off the muddy sleeveless jerkin he wore, admiring the mud caked over his muscular arms. The Cook was worse. Feathers were stuck in his dark curls; the same curls that fell so charmingly into his hazel eyes. Wiping a hand across his nose, he unwittingly smeared mud across the skin there and also the skin of his cheek. Grabbing a washcloth, he dropped the apple and wineskin onto the bed and proceeded to wash himself down, watching the muddy droplets sliding down his defined stomach and toned arms. Grinning, he slid a new shirt on, picking feathers out of his hair, dropping them to drift slowly past his lithe legs to the floor. Lancelot rakishly ran a hand through his hair and left the room, intent on finding Arthur. 

Upon finding his Commander, he beamed endearingly. The half Roman smiled back, reaching over to flick the end of his second in Command's nose. "You have mud on you."

* * *

I'm sorry there wasn't much description, Cardeia, but I tried! 

To all my other reviewers; thank you so much for your encouragement and support, I wouldn't be writing if it wasn't for you! Please don't hesitate to ask me to write something for you.


	14. Truth Or Dare Request

Request; A Galahad and Gawain humour fic.

Requested by; **Eshlyn Kar** (beautiful name, by the way!) Enjoy!

* * *

Truth Or Dare?

"Gawain?" The blonde knight sighed, turning in his saddle to look at the curly haired whelp on the monster behind him. Gawain's blue eyes traced the horse carefully; it had tried to bite him this morning. He just had to make a friend with a boy whose horse happened to be death incarnate.

"Yes, Gal?"

"Wanna play truth or dare?" Gawain raised his eyebrows incredulously. The boy had left home only four days ago, and was already settling into his new life. He, however, was feeling homesick already.

Bors, a rotund, friendly boy, grinned from beside the boy, dwarfing the slender, short boy considerably. Gawain looked him over.

"Did you put him up to this?" He sighed tiredly, reining his horse back slightly to fall in with the pair. Bors tried to maintain a look of innocence; something completely impossible for him.

"Me? Nahh…"

"Right, Bors; not that it was you I saw teaching him to shoot a slingshot yesterday morning." Lamorak chuckled, riding up on Bors' other side.

"So how about it?" Galahad challenged, bright blue eyes peering out from under the mass of curls mischievously. Gawain grunted.

"Fine. Dare."

Bors guffawed and muttered something to Lamorak, whose eyes widened. Gawain felt uneasy.

"What?" He asked, licking his lips nervously.

Galahad grinned, pointing at the backs of the Roman's before him. "You see the Commander?"

Gawain's stomach dropped.

"Aye, I see him."

"He bathes every night in the rivers we stop by." Gawain's brow furrowed; his was common knowledge. Something to do with the Christianity they followed.

"Aye, and?"

Bors let out a mighty guffaw, clapping a hand over his mouth. A few Roman's looked around, then ignored the Sarmatians.

"You have to steal his clothes." Gawain almost fell out of the saddle.

"_What?_ Galahad, you can't be serious!"

The boy smirked.

"You chose 'dare', Gawain." The blonde's mouth fell open. The boy was surely trying to get him killed before his time. Then, his jaw set.

"Fine."

"This should be good." Grinned Lamorak, looking towards the hills at the small spirals of smoke heralding the next village.

* * *

The newest boy was called Lancelot, and he looked sullen and nervous. Until Galahad told him of what was to come that night. Lancelot's mucky face broke out in a grin. Gawain grimaced, turning back to his tack, dreading the moment that the Commander would turn and lead his horse away, heading for the river that they camped by. The boys talked amongst themselves, watching the Commander at odd moments. Finally, as the boys were eating their evening meal, the Commander stood up at his fire, muttering to his men. He took his horse, and left.

Gawain watched him go, pale as snow. Galahad nudged him gently. "Go on. Off you go."

"You're mad." The older boy grunted as he stood. "I'm going to pee." He announced loudly; a couple of legionnaires looked up, and went back to their meals. Gawain sauntered away into the trees, quickly losing his gait as he slid through the trees towards the sound of splashing. Thankfully, he couldn't see the Commander, but the cold hearted man's armour and clothing was on his horse, which stood lightly tethered to a tree.

Making quick work of the knots, Gawain slid away again, watching the horse walk away.

Heart pounding, he made his way back to the camp, careful to come back the same way he'd left. Galahad grinned at him from the fire, the other boys smiling or smirking at him. None would rat him out, he knew that.

_"BRUTUS!"_

The shriek made a few nesting bird fly from the trees. Many of the boys, including Gawain, strove not to laugh at the Commander as he screamed for his horse.

* * *

Later that night, as they were bedding down, Galahad put his mat down next to Gawain's. "They didn't think you'd do it, you know." He murmured as he lay down, wrapping his cloak around him. "The others."

Gawain frowned. He felt homesick, and the laughter of the other boys as the Commander had walked into camp with a cloak around his waist had only served to remind him of the times he'd spent in the firelight at home.

"Well I did." He replied tersely.

Galahad pushed himself up onto one elbow.

"What's wrong, Brother?"

Gawain looked over.

"What did you call me?"

Galahad raised an eyebrow, looking puzzled; "I called you brother. You lot are my new family, it seemed only fitting." Gawain smiled softly. So that was why the boy wasn't homesick. Ruffling Galahad's curls good-naturedly, he lay down.

"Aye…well…nothings wrong." Galahad rolled onto his back, grinning again. Gawain felt uneasy again. He knew that grin.

"What? What have you done?"

"I just thought of another dare."

* * *

Everyone else, your requests are coming, i'm just planning and trying out other things. 


	15. Great Horses

Request; Dagonet, Tristan and Lancelot and the legend that fallen Knights become great Horses. Slight twists…hope you like anyway.

Requested by; Ch3rryphr34k

_

* * *

Tristan. _

The dance is what I lived for. Feeling the thrum of blades, movement of muscles sliding under skin into another movement, another part of the deadly whirling that brings with it eternal darkness.

Some say that I enjoyed killing. I never denied it. But I didn't confirm it either. I loved the dance. The fluidity that overcame every ache and pain my war torn body had to push me into movement. A movement whose effect was death. That, to me, was a side effect. It was the dance I lived for. Dying wasn't something I had planned, but it happened anyway; I'm not sad about it. Everyone dies. And now…

Now, the shifting of _new_ muscles, the feeling of raw strength in my legs is what I live for. Not the ache that comes with years of fighting. Plains stretch out before me, and I know I am home.

I am _home._

_

* * *

Dagonet. _

I didn't want to leave. But, when your time has come, you don't fight it. It wasn't as frightening as I thought it would be; dying. It wasn't so bad. My friends were around me, which is more than Tristan and Lancelot had. I didn't see them die, I just knew it had happened.

My father once told me that we become the stars when we die, so to watch over the lands below and light the lands for the lost to see. I believe that when you die, what happens to you is your choice. Some chose to become great horses. Others, like me, chose to watch over the others and light their way at night. I wanted nothing more than to protect when I was alive, and now, I can light the way for eternity.

_

* * *

Lancelot. _

I'm actually rather flippant about this whole thing. Unsteady, maybe. But then, going from two legs to four isn't that easy. I like this. It's not as hard as having to go about life pretending you're fine with fighting for a land not your own. That gets irksome after the first eight minutes.

New muscles, new shifting, and I'm jet black. If a horse could smile, I'd be the toothiest horse in Sarmatia. Probably the most handsome too.

My Father was right, you do return as a Great Horse. Maybe I'll find myself a nice Sarmatian mare. Or maybe _Gawain's_ Sarmatian mare. He'd be furious I beat him to the skirt in the afterlife too. Or maybe I can find my tribe. I wouldn't mind walking about with someone on my back as long I was with those I love. This incline doesn't look to bad, maybe down there I ca-

Whoops, steady, Lancelot, boy. You're gong to break a hoof doing that.

Maybe not then.

I'm home, and I've decided; dying isn't so bad.

Especially when you look like this.

* * *

Hope you liked, I know it's a bit off the wall, but hey! I tried! 


	16. Smelling of Flowers

The fault of Ailis-70 entirely. 'm not sure whether this was a cleverly disguised request or a simple question! Your bathhouse scene, Milady! Though not in the place you would have thought.

I don't know what it is about me and guys in water?

Hope it's not too lewd.

And I seem to keep mentioning the fact he has broad shoulders.

I like men with broad shoulders.

Urgh…get on with the story, Woman.

_

* * *

Smelling of Flowers._

Reaching behind his head, Gawain pulled his unruly locks back into a leather bind, letting the mass hang between his bare shoulder blades, the ends just brushing the skin of his behind. He'd have to ask Vanora for a trim. He grimaced.

The bathhouse was empty, devoid of anyone. It was slightly eerie, if he was going to be honest with himself. Stepping into the steaming water, he watched as the mist that swirled across the surface swept away from his muscular legs. Sliding with a groan into the water, Gawain let the water do it's work.

Sitting on a ledge, the rugged blonde sighed as he felt the knotted cords of his back and arms loosening, steely sinew soothing, taut muscles being gently caressed by the scented water. His only qualm about the bathhouse was that he always came out smelling like flowers. Gingerly running a hand over his flat stomach, he listened to it growling; dinner was soon then. His stomach rarely let him down.

Gawain smiled, scrubbing a hand through his beard as he though about something a wench had said to him the other night. She'd wondered why he stayed so lithe and muscular when he ate so much. He claimed it was the exercise. The woman unwittingly asked him to explain Bors. Gawain had roared with laughter and proceeded to show her exactly _what_ type of exercise he meant. It was a big exercise.

Brining up a hand, he studied it. A large palm and long, tapered fingers, rough nails and even rougher skin, calluses on his palm and the ends of his fingers. Moisture dripped down his hands and ran down his wrist to drop, quietly, from his mucky elbow back into the water. This was the hand of a warrior.

Tilting his head, Gawain looked at his hand of a few more minutes before deciding enough muck must had detached itself from him. He stood in the waist deep pool; the water rushing over the hills and valleys of taut muscle and soft hair, broad shoulders wet with the bathwater gleaming in the torchlight. Stepping out, his feet made tracks to the changing room, whereupon a rough towel was employed to swipe away the water and grime, tingeing his skin slightly pink.

Pulling on a shirt and breeches, Gawain decided against tying the shirt front; it was warm enough tonight. Besides, he thought with a roguish grin, you could see most of his well defined chest through the gap. Scooping up some unscented water from a washstand bowl, he wiped over his face; the straight nose, firm mouth, strong jaw and long lashed eyes, the sapphire colour tightly protected against the invading water. Drying off his face, Gawain straightened with a sigh, leaving his hair tied back, hanging between the blades of his shoulders. He left the bathhouse, as always, smelling of flowers.

* * *

Heh, please review. I'm still doing requests at the mo (boondockgal, yours is coming, if you want to be in it, tell me what you look like!) and i'm open to more suggestions. 


	17. The Dance

A present for **Cardeia** and **Ailis-70**. My two most beloved reviewers! You deserve more than this for the encouragement and support you give me, but i thought you would like this. Enjoy.

_

* * *

The Dance. _

The air rang loud with the clash of steel on steel; the heavy, laboured breathing of the two men who battled in the icy courtyards. Sabre met short sword in an overhead lock; the wild man sliding past the second, almost teasing blade as it swung towards his leather-clad waist. Spinning away, the man sighed mournfully, eyes flickering gently. They stood ten feet apart.

"Yield?" Asked the younger man, shaking his sweaty curls from his sharp gaze. The calm, feral gaze of the second fighter swept up from the ground to meet the other's; penetrating the random braids that fell across his handsome face. A slow, easy smile tilted his mouth as his sabre slid up to point at the grinning young man.

"You gonna stop whoring?" Was his reply.

Lancelot laughed, his blades sweeping through the chill breeze with a singing noise, stopping before him.

"Again."

Tristan and Lancelot met in a furious cacophony of blades and muscles, each of them measuring steps, trying to outwit the other.

Lancelot's face frowned in concentration, the young skin of his face creasing, his breath coming in short gasps as he evaded the waspish sabre. His long, lithe legs stepped skilfully around Tristan's own booted and leathered lower limbs, arms wielding his prized swords, callused hands gripping the familiar leather bind.

Tristan danced. There was no other way to describe it. Sinuous, cat like movements stretched his lean musculature, the beautiful sabre whirling around him in a kiss of death. He didn't need two swords; he moved fast enough with the one. A soft smile flitted on his lips, dark eyes warm with amusement and joy. Someone worthy to fight; the simple enjoyment of the dance appreciated by another; it was all he asked. He could feel his newest injury, stitches to a cut on his firm stomach, pulling slightly. It didn't matter. It could always be re-stitched.

Clash upon clash, gasp upon gasp, blade against blade, will against will, the warriors eked it out. To Tristran and Lancelot, the Dance was all that was. All there could be.

Finally, the Lancelot's blades met in an 'x', stopping the downswing of the sabre, the warm blade resting in the apex. Both men flicked the hair from their eyes, muscles aching, both thoroughly exhausted.

The unspoken question stood between them, and both lowered their blades. After looking at each other steadily for a moment; dark gaze meeting dark gaze, the friends and brothers in arms sheathed their heated blades.

"Again tomorrow?" Tristran asked in a low murmur as they walked to the tavern.

"Aye."

"Where you two been, 'eh?" Bors shouted as they neared the table, looking over the head of Gawain's whore. Lancelot sat as Tristan went to get two drinks; '_And probably'_, he thought, '_an apple_.'. Pulling a girl onto his lap, he nuzzled her neck before answering; "We've been dancing."

* * *

I hope you enjoyed it, please give me an idea of what you thought! I know you don't like to cheat, so here they are as one. 

Everyone, I'm overwhelmed by the amount of ideas people have! I shall try to get as many requests out as possible, but you have to give me some time. I hope that's alright with everyone?


	18. Bad Day

Bad Day. 

"TRISTAN!"

_Bang._

"Damnit." Muttered the pile of bedding on the floor. For a moment, Tristan didn't move, wondering whether sleeping on the hard floor was indeed possible. "TRISTAN!"

Perhaps not. Cursing Bors' very name, the young Scout struggled to his feet, still draped in most of his bedding.

Stumbling towards the door, the felt around through the sheet until he grasped the doorhandle, yanking open the door; and falling over his ankles, which were draped in linen. With a crash, he toppled into the corridor. Almost immediately, there was a mighty roar of laughter, and it wasn't just Bors'. Struggling to a standing point, Tristan growled in frustration. Flinging his arms around, the young man fought hard and well, until the sheet was thus vanquished; his head poked through a rip. Hair on end and eyes still sleepy, Tristan regarded Bors with something close to a murderous glare. "What?"

Bors grinned.

"Get up."

Galahad, Gawain, Lamorak and Lancelot, who were behind the bigger boy, burst out laughing, walking around the befuddled Tristan to get to the mess hall. Patting Tristan's head, Bors evaded the furious Scout's arms, which were still entangled in sheets, and wandered off down the hallway.

Scowling, Tristan fell back into his room, kicking the door shut from his position on the floor. His eyes became determined as he perused his mummified form.

"Right."

Half an hour later, Tristan slammed into the mess hall, covered in lint and wearing his tunic back to front. The other knights looked on in confused silence. What on earth had he been doing?

"Tris-..." Lamorak began, but was quickly silenced as the Scout whirled and yelled, "I KNOW!" Turning again, Tristan's foot caught on a bucket that lay next to a bench for cleaning, and fell headlong into a passing whore's breasts; the woman shrieked and started hitting the poor man over the head. Tristan curled up, wishing that he could just go back to bed.

There was total silence, and he realised that the woman had gone; he took a seat next to the closest person; Bedivere, and swiftly buried himself in his tankard. "You alright, Tristan?" Bedivere asked conversationally.

"No." Was the terse reply. "I'm not bloody alright."

Bedivere's brows rose, threatening to vanish into his mop of hair.

A small smile eked itself from Tristan's mouth. Nothing could possibly go wrong here. Grasping his bow in one hand and a quiver in the other, he headed out to the practice yards, which were already full of people. '_What could go wrong?' _

As it turned out, everything.

Red cheeked, Tristan watched as Bors was escorted to the infirmary, an arrow firmly imbedded in his rear. Thankfully, he had been sparring at the time, and so the thick leather had prevented the arrow from causing too much damage, merely a harsh cut that couldn't take too long to heal.

Bedivere trotted over, his mouth hanging.

"What on earth is up with you today?" He asked, confused. Tristan shrugged, "Bad Day."

As Tristan left the practice yards, Bedivere noticed he tripped around the corner.

* * *

Suggested/requested by **Shevaun, **hope it was to your satisfaction! 


	19. The Girl

The Girl

Gawain watched the girl with warm eyes, her curly brown locks falling to just below her shoulder blades, tan skin showing in the scooped neck of her black dress, the wide sleeves lifted as she raised the bow to the target, one deep brown eye closing as the other took aim. '_She's a pretty thing_...' he thought wistfully, '_shame she's taken._'

Lancelot sauntered over, leaning next to his brother in arms on the fence of the practice yard. The arrow took flight, hitting the centre of the target with a thunk, quivering slightly.

"She's something, isn't she?" Lancelot murmured, his dark eyes never leaving her as he motioned with one hand. "Comes down here almost every day to shoot. Lovely thing…" Gawain grunted in agreement, muttering, "Don't even think about it, Lance."

Lancelot looked wounded.

"Think about what?"

Gawain straightened himself, groaning as his sore arms, aching from almost an hour spent leaning on the fence watching the girl stretched. "Going after her." The curly haired knight grinned roguishly.

"And why not? You haven't staked a claim to her."

Gawain chuckled, patting his shoulder.

"No, but Tristan has." Lancelot's handsome jaw dropped, his eyes flicking back towards the girl, watching in disbelief as the Scout sauntered out of the stable block, walking with feline grace towards the pretty woman. Wrapping his arms around her from behind, Lancelot watched with somewhat jealous eyes as he murmured something into her hair, adjusting her hold on the bow. The girl laughed, tilting her head back onto the wild man's shoulder. Tristan smiled, really smiled.

"Damn." Lancelot chuckled. "I'm no Scout, but I should have seen that coming."

* * *

Requested by **boondockgal.** Sorry it took so long! Hope it was alright. 


	20. Bath Time

Requested by **Calliann**. A Bors and Vanora moment.

* * *

Bath Time.

"Gilly! Get over 'ere!"

"_Four_! Don't even think about it!"

"Six! _NO_!"

Bors lunged, seizing Eight, who, with an evil grin, was dunking Seven's head under the water repeatedly. Nine threw soap at one of her brothers.

Vanora had her arms full with One, who, in the stubborn oldest child attitude, had flatly refused to bathe. The conversation went roughly thus;

"Get in."

"No."

"_One." _

"No!"

With a yell, Vanora launched herself at her eldest son, successfully knocking him backwards into the large pool of the bathhouse, fully clothed. "Well, at least he'll save me washing his stuff." She murmured to herself, watching One cursing and floundering until he found his feet. Ten promptly shoved him over again.

"And don't you cuss like that!" She yelled, turning to Bors, who was holding a smelly Gilly (Five) and clamouring Four in one hand and a giggling, sudsy Three in the other.

"'Ere." He growled, thrusting the children at her, "Gods know where they get this from. It ain't me."

"Aye," Retorted Vanora, taking her other children and throwing them unceremoniously with a splash into the big pool. "Not that I can smell ye from a mile off. I always know when_ you're_ coming home." Eleven sat cooing quietly in his wrappings, watching his parents fighting. The horde of offspring chortled, splashed, screamed and cavorted in the bathhouse pool. One sat on the edge, glowering as he wrung out his shirt. Thus it was bath time in Bors' household.

Later that night, as Bors and Vanora lay together, talking quietly, there was a small noise from outside. "What was that?" Vanora asked, sitting bolt upright. Ever protective, Bors slid from the bed, sliding his knuckle dusters onto his hands. Motioning for Vanora to stay behind him, the pair crept to the room where their bastards slept.

"I'll kill her." Vanora exclaimed in a whisper as Two crept in, looking around warily from her parents, who were hidden in the shadows. "I thought I was one missing."

* * *

A quick reply to **Melosine**; I did do one! It's called I Just Need A Hug, not sure whether you read it. 


	21. Lessons

Requested by **MissBubbles; **something between Dagonet and Lancelot.

* * *

Lessons.

"What did you do this time?" Dagonet asked, amused, as Lancelot entered their chamber, holding his hand to his face. The curly haired knight took his hand from his face, exposing a very red handprint. Raising an eyebrow, Dagonet motioned him to sit, while he went to grab a poultice from the infirmary, reminding himself to get more herbs. A small smile formed on his scarred features. '_Poor Lance.'_

"You know, Lancelot, you don't always have to whore." He admonished gently as he applied a smelly cream to the younger man's face. "Maybe you should think about settling with one woman?" Lancelot winced, though from pain or disgust, Dagonet didn't know. "Why bother?" Lancelot retorted, "There are plenty for the taking, and I don't want to settle."

Dagonet shrugged, slightly hurt by the hostile manner in which he had been spoken to. "Alright, I was only suggesting it."

Lancelot felt guilty immediately. Reaching out, he placed a hand on Dagonet's shoulder; "Forgive me, friend, I didn't mean to take my sour mood out on you." Dagonet nodded, looking slightly mollified. Lancelot lay back on his bed, sighing as he looked at the ceiling.

"You thinking of settling down, Dag?" He asked after a few moments, rolling onto his elbow to look at his big friend. Dagonet shrugged, looking slightly embarrassed. Lancelot caught the emotion and wondered on it.

"Why are you embarrassed?"

"Because I am no good with women." The gentle giant admitted with a sigh. "I don't know what to say." Lancelot sat up, a calculating look in his eye. Dagonet grew slightly nervous.

"What?"

"I'll give you lessons."

* * *

Please, please review! Four updates in a day! (I got my GCSE results today too, so I'm on a high! (results on my page if anyone is interested.))

Hope you all enjoyed!


	22. Welcome To My Life

I don't own the title, before anyone tells me off..

I don't normally write songfics.

I generally don't even like them.

But, I was listening to the song and thought '_Good Lord; It's Galahad in music..'_

So here we are.

_**

* * *

Welcome To My Life.**_

_Do you ever feel like breaking down? _

_Do you ever feel out of place?_

* * *

With a yell, Galahad flung his sword into the corner of his room, hating the blood covered blade with his whole heart. "I'm only twelve.." He whispered to the empty room. "I hate this place." 

Sitting down on his bed, he put his head in his hands.

_

* * *

Like somehow you just don't belong _

_And no one understands you _

_Do you ever want to run away? _

_Do you lock yourself in your room? _

_With the radio on turned up so loud _

_That no one hears you screaming _

* * *

"I can't do this!" He screamed as Gawain looked on, shocked. The younger boy stared at the body at his feet. Those eyes would never see again. That mouth would never grin again. "I can't do this." He whispered. 

Galahad vomited.

_

* * *

No you don't know what it's like _

_When nothing feels alright _

_You don't know what it's like_

_To be like me _

* * *

"Give us a grin, Pup!" Percival roared, laughing. Galahad gave a tight grin from behind his hug. How could they be so jovial? _

* * *

To be hurt, to feel lost _

_To be left out in the dark _

_To be kicked when you're down _

_To feel like you've been pushed around _

_To be on the edge of breaking down _

_And no one's there to save you _

_No you don't know what it's like _

_Welcome to my life _

* * *

Standing alone in his room, the youth looked tiredly at his bloodied armour, picking up a scrubbing brush and setting to work. He hated it here. Hated it. 

He looked up at the door as it was knocked upon softly. Gawain poked his head through. "We're going to the tavern. Coming?"

"Maybe later."

The door closed again and the youngest knight set back to work, trying to ignore the fact he was picking someone's' intestine from his chain mail.

_

* * *

To be hurt, to feel lost _

_To be left out in the dark _

_To be kicked when you're down _

_To feel like you've been pushed around _

_To be on the edge of breaking down _

_And no one's there to save you _

_No you don't know what it's like (what it's like) _

_To be hurt _

_To feel lost _

_To be left out in the dark _

_To be kicked _

_When you're down _

_To feel like you've been pushed around _

_To be on the edge of breaking down _

_And no one's there to save you _

_No you don't know what it's like _

_Welcome to my life _

* * *

"When I get home, this will all just be a bad memory. A bad memory." Rolling over, Galahad closed his eyes, trying to sleep through the faces that haunted him. 

With a sigh, he sat up again, sheet falling down his bare chest to pool at his hips. Running a hand through his curls and cursed at the walls;

"Welcome to my life."

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Review, you know you want to. 


	23. Forgive Me

A request from **Sarmatian-Woman. **Hope it's up to standard!

Request; What did Lancelot do after Arthur and he fought in the stables?

* * *

I can't believe him! Everything we've been through together! Fifteen years of fighting side by side, fifteen years of blood, sweat and grief.

And now, when it's finally over, we have to go out again.

I don't _understand._ Arthur is many things, but he is not stupid. So why is he doing this? His face, tired and worn, looked wounded as I told him I didn't trust anything that put a man on his knees. I forced the image of my thirteen year old self swearing fealty to Arthur. On my bended knee.

I may was well have said I didn't trust him.

I should apologise, but my pride won't let me go back. I feel a smirk on my lips as I settle myself next to Lamorak's mound. He was only twenty and three summers when he fell.

I come here to think, the quiet peace of our sad little cemetery comforting. I've come here for years. Nobody comes here when I do.

And yet I don't want to be buried here. I don't want to lie here in slumber next to my brothers. I want to be free of this place, able to go home if I wish it. I want to burn, like my forefathers, and go home.

I chuckle quietly. No, I don't have as much to say about home as Galahad, but I miss it with a fierce ache that burns my heart.

Sighing, I lie back, letting the cold grass soak into my clothes, shivers starting. I probably shouldn't. Dag will have a fit if he sees me. Lamorak on one side, Kay on the other. And over Kay lies Gareth, then Percival, then Bedivere. The start of a fairly big line of names. I'm not the only one who wants, or , wanted to be burned.

My blood is cooling now, the anger dissipating; leaving me with a sense of remorse and tiredness. I shouldn't feel old at the age of twenty and eight winters, but I do. I feel as old as my father.

Gravel crunches, and I sit up on my elbows, looking about warily.

Arthur.

I flatten myself again quickly, watching as he scans the graveyard for me, remorse and guilt as clear on his features as I'm sure they are on mine.

Why am I hiding from my best friend? I know not.

I'll find him later.

Then, he spoke.

"I'm sorry. All of you. I should have protected you better. I didn't, and you paid for it with your lives. Forgive me?" No answer. How could the dead reply? My heart yanked painfully for my friend. He was not accountable, and yet he felt he was. I shook my head, standing. Arthur looked surprised, taking a step back. I move swiftly, placing a bracing hand on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry, Arthur. I spoke heatedly when I shouldn't have. Forgive me?" Arthur nodded, looking across the graveyard.

This would be a night of forgiveness, I could see it. I stalk towards the tavern, leaving him there. May Arthur's God help the others if they tried to give him a hard time. I would box their ears if they tried.


	24. Sorry

Phew! With so much going on at school ect, I don't really have much time to write, which is why another ficlet has been so long in coming! Please review.

_**

* * *

Sorry.**_

Kicking grumpily at a stone, Gawain stormed around the thicket of trees, trying to calm his raging temper. '_Since when have I ever been anything other than a brother to_ _Galahad?'_ He thought furiously, sending yet another rock spinning away into the undergrowth viciously. '_When have I ever doubted him?'_

"Gawain?"

Cursing silently, the blonde knight kept his back turned, folding his arms childishly before him as the tentative voice of the man he considered a brother floated through into his hiding place.

"Gawain, please. Talk to me?"

Snorting, Gawain scuffed moodily at the ground, churning up a little mud with his booted foot, mulishly casting his eyes down like a wronged child. Galahad's legs came into view. "Gawain.." He coaxed quietly, pleading. "I hate it when you're mad at me. Please talk to me? I've said I'm sorry." Gawain turned his back, fuming. '_Sorry isn't good enough. I only want him to be safe. I couldn't save the others, but I can save him!' _He thought, stormy blue eyes angry. Galahad's unimposing hand on his shoulder and soft, "I'm really_, really_ sorry.", began to wear down his resolve to stay angry. Slowly, the tension in his broad, strong shoulders lessened, slumping them down dejectedly. He turned to face the younger man, eyes wounded. "I only want you keep you alive. So you can go home." Gawain whispered, fighting to keep the tears in check._ 'Damn. Why now?' _He thought in consternation, wiping the water away from his eyes with a rough hand. "_They_ can't go home, my brothers."

Galahad looked so miserable and sorry, that it drew a chuckle from Gawain's expansive chest, making the curly haired knight look up.

"You look like a whipped dog." Gawain explained with a sigh, finally getting his emotions under check. Galahad scowled, punching his arm lightly. Gawain punched him back. An all out war began. Play fighting was a pastime of most of the knights.

As the pair struggled, Galahad in a headlock, trying unsuccessfully to wriggle away as Gawain messed with his hair, Galahad cried, "I see you're not mad at me anymore!" Gawain laughed, neatly tripping the younger knight until he sat on his lower back, resting an elbow casually on his shoulder.

"No, but this means you're cleaning my armour for a week."

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Please review. 


	25. Is This Your Happy Face?

_**Where did Gawain learn the term, "Is this your happy face?"**_

**Ailis-70**; I can see what you mean. This is kinda inspired by that comment and my bad day..

All my other reviewers, thank you so much! Enjoy.

* * *

"Argghh!" Gawain yelled, tossing his axe with venom into the corner. He couldn't get anything right today.

"Bloody hells." He cursed, grabbing a spare shirt and breeches, before marching from the room, prowling to the stables like a furious lion.

The water was freezing, slamming against his back, his skin an icy white. Leaning his forehead against the wall of the cave, he let the waterfall do it's worst, hammering against his broad back with venom. Pushing his soaked, dripping locks away from his face, he washed briskly, thanking the water sprites that it wasn't winter. His bare arms shook form the cold, his defined chest the only real source of warmth about him. Muscles stretched and unwound, lithe ligaments twisting under the skin, working the aggravation out.

Eventually, the cold became too much.

Stepping out from the falls, he grimaced as Galahad's raised an eyebrow at him from a set of rocks. The river rumbled along as Gawain dressed.

"Feeling better?" Galahad asked mildly as they rode back. Gawain grunted grudgingly.

"Everyone makes mistakes, Gawain."

"Doesn't mean they have to like it." He snapped back, eliciting another raised eyebrow.

"Now, now, Gawain. Is this your happy face?"

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PLEASE REVIEW!


	26. Runaway

**_Runaway._**

"Tristran, have you seen Galahad?"

Tristran looked up from his blade, raising his dark eyes to meet Arthur's worried ones. A swift shake of his head sent Arthur striding away to the stables.

* * *

"Lancelot, Gawain; have you seen Galahad?" The pair shook their heads, Gawain raising his eyebrows, asked why. Arthur's voice was grave as he left the stables.

Lancelot turned to this brother in arms. "He ran away?" He asked incredulously. "Didn't think the pup had it in him." Gawain looked concerned.

"Maybe."

Arthur's panicked stride as he retreated left both young men's faces worried.

* * *

"Gareth, Bors, Dag; do you know where Galahad is?" All three shook their heads, gathered around a table playing dice.

"Arthur, what's wrong?" Dagonet asked standing as his commander's eyes closed in anguish.

"He ran away." The whispered words echoed around the small room. Gareth's eyes widened. "What?"

Arthur leant against the wall, covering his eyes with a hand. "He's gone."

* * *

"Gal! Hey Gal! Remember that time you ran away?" Bors roared drunkenly, laughing. Galahad gave a tight grin, faking a small chuckle. "Yeah.." Gawain raised an eyebrow at him, questioning. A curt nod was all he received, before the youngest knight took his leave.

* * *

Stretching in the baths, Galahad winced as the scars on his back pulled. The Roman Empire wasn't that Christian. So much for Forgiveness.

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Please Review.


	27. Good Knight's Sleep

Good Knight's Sleep.

Lying with his eyes closed, Tristan listened carefully. The sounds of breathing lay heavy in the air around him, the warmth of several bodies heating the long room. Stretched out, Tristan folded his hands behind his head, crossing his legs idly at the ankle, longish hair falling onto his eyes as the Scout feigned sleep.

He almost started as Bors let out a particularly loud snort, and behind closed lids, chocolate brown eyes rolled. '_Looks like tonight's gonna be the night.' _Tristan thought, letting his mind wander a little, thinking about the training session he was going to push himself through the next morning.

Sniffle.

Suddenly wide awake, all traces of drowsiness gone, Tristan listened carefully. He didn't have to wait long to hear the next muffled sniff, the shifting of covers. Cracking one eye open a little, he watched as a tiny figure dressed in an overlarge tunic and breeches stumbled from the end bed nearest the door, curly hair flung in all directions. With a inaudible sigh, the seventeen year old watched as the little skinny figure pushed open the big door and vanish through it, pushing it closed again as he left.

Tristan swung up, sliding his legs off the bed, resting an elbow on his knee as he wiped a hand wearily across his face.

Every night since arrival two weeks ago, Galahad had been up through the night. The boy was only eight, taken forcibly from his family after it was discovered that there were no boys older than him. A low growl tried to work it's way from the Scout's throat. The normal age for taking was twelve. Standing, Tristan padded over to the door, eying the pile of stinking boots with a raised eyebrow. Digging through some thirty pairs, he finally found his own, and vowed never to leave his boots at the door again. Thirty young men and boys did not make for clean smells.

Tugging them on he took a last look around the barracks. The beds filled with snoring bodies were lined up against the two walls facing each other, leaving a swathe down the middle that was covered in bits of armour, wine jugs, bits of stolen food, clothes, shoes, weapons and the gods only knew what else. Despairingly shaking his head, Tristan eyed his own cot. The bed was neat; he rarely stirred during the night; he waited for Galahad to shift about before he slept. His armour was neatly stacked under the cot, along with a bag of belongings. He was a tidy person. He looked at the cot nearest the door. Furs flung about, pillow half off the edge, pummelled to limpness, clothes stacked haphazardly.

He was only eight.

Opening the door quietly, Tristan slipped out, making a mental note to ask Gawain, the boy Galahad slept beside, to swap beds with him. It would make it so much easier.

The search didn't take long; Galahad only ever went to one place.

Climbing the ladder to the hayloft, Tristan poked his head through, looking for the bundle of limbs, cloth and curls that would be Galahad.

"Tristan?" The voice was shaking, small and ashamed. "You didn't have to come after me…" Heaving himself into the loft, Tristan crawled the short distance to the boy, trying not to bang his head on the rafters; the space was really very small.

"Don't be stupid." He grunted as he stretched out next to the boy.

Galahad wrapped his arms around his knees, which were drawn up to his chest. His big blue eyes were worried and red, cheeks slightly pink with embarrassment. Straw poked messily from his mop of hair. Tristan fought the urge to grin; Galahad would be of favour with the women when he grew up. "Tell me about your home, please?" Galahad asked suddenly, looking at the older boy. "I tell you about mine every night. Tell me about yours?" The slightly pleading note had Tristan's heart twisting.

"You want to know about my home?"

"Yes, please."

Tristan took a deep breath, wondering whether he should just refuse. Looking over a the small boy, he thought better of it.

"Well, the plains stretch for miles…."

* * *

"D'you think they'll be back soon?" Percival asked, sitting up with his back against the wall.

"Aye, they're never gone long." Lancelot put in, lying on his stomach with his head at the other end of the cot; he preferred to sleep with his head away from the wall. His chin resting on his hands, he yawned loudly. Dagonet grunted, sitting up. "You think we should tell Tristan we know?"

"Nah," Gareth groaned, rolling onto his back to stare at the dark ceiling. " He needs to come out of himself a bit more. Let him talk to the boy." Gawain raised an eyebrow buy stayed quiet, looking at the door now and then.

Bors rolled onto his back and began snoring louder than before. Instantly, all five boys clamped hands over their ears. Miraculously, none of the other Knights awoke. Dagonet stuck a leg out and soundly booted the sleeping Bors, prompting the bigger boy to roll again, straight out of his cot and onto the floor, a muffled bang and mild tremor shaking the beds around him. He slept on, oblivious. Thankfully, the snores stopped.

Gawain tensed suddenly. "They're coming!"

Instantly, all five flung themselves into various positions of sleep, closing eyes and deepening breathing.

* * *

Pointing to the boy's bed, Tristan gave him Galahad a small smile. The boy grinned back, a genuine smile that lit up his eyes and showed all of his white teeth. Except the front upper one on the left, which he had lost the other day. Ruffling his hair, Tristan gave him a slight push. The boy climbed into bed, wrapping the furs around himself.

Sinking onto his own cot, Tristan instantly fell asleep, lost in memories of his home.

* * *

"Why'm I on the floooor?" Bors groaned the next morning. "And why do I have a foot shaped bruise?" He moaned, examining the side of his thigh.

"You wouldn't stop snoring!" Dagonet snapped, straightening his bed furs.

"Cranky this morning aren't we?" Bors laughed, pounding his chest with his fists. "RUUUUUS!"

Any boy that had been asleep, promptly woke up.

"BORS! SHUT IT!" Lancelot roared, flinging a sandal at the older boy. It hit Lamorak.

Lancelot squinted, looking for the person he'd hit, bleary eyed.

"Urgh!"

He buried his head back under the covers.

"Didn't sleep well Lancey?" Lamorak goaded, flinging the sandal back, hitting the fur covered head. "No, as a matter of fact! I didn't." Came the muffled reply. Tristan watched this exchange with a realisation. A slow smile spread across his face.

_

* * *

Clang._

Lancelot and Tristan circled each other, parrying and thrusting, swords glinting in the light. "Yield?" Lancelot gasped as Tristan swung around.

"No."

Suddenly, Lancelot's swords were flying in either direction. The Scarecrow. "Damn."

"I think you should do something for me, since I won." Tristan commented airily.

"Yeah? Like what?" Snapped the younger man, angered at having lost.

"Next time, you get up. I need some sleep."

Lancelot's jaw dropped.

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Please review. 


	28. Abandonment

Warning, wussy.. i was in a strange mood..

* * *

"Tristan." The young, dark haired man looked up, desperation in his eyes. His father stood in the doorway to the tent. "They've come."

"No."

"Tristr-.."

"I _won't_ go! I'm not leaving her!" Panicked eyes turned back to the bed, rough hands, calloused with work, smoothing over the rumpled, sweat-soaked curls. The girl looked on death's door, her dark hair matted with fever-sweat, her skin flushed and unhealthy looking. She moaned gutterally, her back arching off the bed as another memory swept her into a world of pain. Tristan felt tears come up in his eyes again. She would never be well again. His father stepped a little more into the tent, reaching out to place a hand on his son's shoulder.

"Don't touch me. Get out."

Pained, Trisdram looked at his son's hunched figure. He'd never left the girl's side. Not for a moment. "They'll be here by sundown. Say your goodbyes."

"Get _OUT!" _

Tristan let the tears fall as the sunlight was blocked out by the tent flap. As he had done for weeks now, he lay his head on the barely moving stomach of his sister and sobbed. Why did the Black God want her so? And now the Romans were here, and he had to leave her, abandon her. Who would be there for her when she woke up? If she woke up.

"Please wake up." He whispered mournfully, "Please?" He continued to plead with her, kissing her too-hot cheeks, covering her in salty tears, feeling the deep well of despair ripping into his soul, shredding it to oblivion. It physically _hurt_. To see the girl who he'd looked after since their Mother's death looking so witheringly close to leaving this Earth, looking so pale and fragile. She wouldn't last. No! He wouldn't think like that..

His Father wouldn't care for her. She wasn't his daughter. Not in his eyes. Fathers didn't have daughters. They had sons. Women had daughters, and they dealt with daughters. She may as well not have existed. With a snarl of rage, Tristan flung a beaker at his pile of belongings in the corner, hating his father with all his worth.

"They're here!"

Tristan froze. No, it was too soon, surely…

"Tristan!"

"No!" He hissed, glancing worriedly at his sister. "I can't leave her now."

"Boy, come on." His Father's face appeared at the flap, an almost sad smile on his face. "This is an honourable time for you."

"I'm not leaving her."

"Would you have reason to stay if she died?" Tristan looked wary at this last question, weighing his father up.

"Why?"

"Would you?"

"No."

"Then go. She's not going to survive, Tristan."

"You don't know that!" Tristan yelled, angry, but feeling a deep pull at his heart. He knew it was true. She wouldn't last much longer.

* * *

Tears ran down his face as he lay in his bedroll that night, away from the others. He'd abandoned her.

He would never, ever abandon any of these men. Ever.

* * *

His falcon circled overhead. His sister, he belived. She watched over him, like he didn't watch over her. The sword came down. Nothing.

* * *

The grassy plains were empty, warm and green. Mystified, Tristan spun slowly. A word made him jump and swing about quickly.

"Tristan?"

"Brianna?" She looked healthy, well. Tears of happiness shone in his eyes. Hauling her into a huge embrace, he took her in, her hair, smile, scent. His sister was well again!

"I'm sorry I left." He blurted, pulling away slightly to look at her. Brianna's eyes looked sad. "You didn't."

"I didn't?"

Over her shoulder, his grandparents, Mother, Father, people he knew from the tribe…Isolde. She'd died in battle… he grabbed her, releasing his sister, kissing her fiercely on the mouth, crushing her to him. Finally, whoops from the male members of his family forced him to break away. Isolde grinned at him. He grinned back.

"I'm dead, aren't I?"

Brianna laughed, a warm, light sound.

"Sort of... You're _home."

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_

Please Review. 


	29. Anguish

Contains a character from my story "The Tithe'd Ones." Only mentions a couple of the knights.

* * *

An anguished scream ripped from my throat, tearing at me, paining me. I slammed my fists against anything I could reach, tree trunks, branches, rock. Blood streamed down my fingers. It didn't matter.

I kept messing up, I kept making mistakes that hurt people.

Another cry ripped out of me, searing my lungs with it's intensity, tears burning harsh tracks through the dirt on my face. I collapsed, howling, in the dirt of the forest floor.

Wet seeped through my scant clothing to stick, cold and cruel against my skin, as I clung to the mud like a babe, screaming, screaming. My cries sounded like a wailing creature, a dying creature. Agony in it's harshest intensity, the burning hate for oneself, a loathing so great I wished for nothing other in that moment but to die. Die, and leave this place to it's ways of the world. I felt darkness at the edge of my vision, and I closed my eyes, willing consciousness to slip away.

* * *

Warm arms encircled me, holding me securely to a solid chest, my face buried in a pulse, the man scent from his skin soothing me. I was still wet, damp tendrils of hair curling softly against my cheek. I was too exhausted to open my eyes.

"Dax?" I nodded gently against him, snuggling deeper. His arms tightened and pulled me closer, his chin resting on my head. Softly, a tear ran down my cheek, sliding through my hair to drip, with a tiny splash, onto Tristran's jerkin.

"What's wrong, my love?" I whimpered, shaking my head. He might hate me if I told him that I was so evil. Tristan, thankfully, didn't press the matter, and merely slipped from under me to pull me up. Opening my eyes, I was pleased to find myself in his room, in his bed. I felt safest here.

Dagonet's eyes widened as Tristan carried me into his room, usually calm face sweeping a quick look of panic as he saw my torn and bloody arms, damp and dishevelled face and clothes, and vacant, anguished expression. I couldn't bring myself to change the way I was. I felt oddly calm inside, like I had merely been sleeping, watching what I had been doing from somewhere else. I couldn't feel my hands. I couldn't feel from my midriff to my ribs. That section of me was missing to my mind. Gently setting me down, Tristan cast one last, worried look at me before leaving. As Dagonet began cleaning my wounds, I stared straight ahead, wondering just when I had made such a mess of things.

* * *

This is not a chapter from "The Tithe'd Ones."

Please review, if I haven't thoroughly depressed you.


	30. Now They Are Warriors

It's 12.34 am, and I've had to get up out of my nice warm bed .Those plot bunnies are rather vicious when they want to be.

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Now They Are Warriors

'_When they first came here, they were only boys. Only boys with strange ideas about_ _glory and death. Now…_' Arthur gazed out over the practice yard, leaning his chin on a hand, green eyes studious. '_Now they are warriors._'

The young Roman Commander watched as one of the youngest, Galahad, took on Tristran, his curls falling into his eyes, overlarge tunic tucked into his breeches out of the way. His face grim with determination, eyes set on the older boy's blade, he whipped his wooden practice sword around in a complicated move, which, unsurprisingly, Tristan blocked. The half Roman, however, grinned in pleasure. '_He's getting better._' Arthur observed, pride beating fiercely in his blood.

Next, his expressive green eyes turned to Lancelot and Lamorak, who sparred with aggression and intent. They'd both been trying to beat the other for weeks now.

The feet of the young men danced in the dust, raising swirling clouds that twisted into spirals around them, the thwack of wood on wood, the sweeping motions of the stave disturbing the particles, sending them drifting into the dark, out of the thin shafts of sunlight that slanted through the wooden boards of the walls. Suddenly, Lancelot switched hands, catching Lamorak off guard. The taller boy's staff fell to the dust with a thud. '_So, Lancelot can use both hands_.' Only the raised eyebrow betrayed his surprise.

"I can't do it, Bors!"

The frustrated cry drew his eyes immediately, and a soft, sympathetic smile turned the corners of his handsome mouth. Gawain stood with the thickset Bors, who was patiently trying to show the blonde how to shoot a bow. Gawain had shown much promise with an axe, but not so much with a bow. Arthur watched as the taller boy bent down, picking up the fallen bow, dusting it off before handing it back to the brooding young man, cuffing him around the head for good measure. "Yeah, you can, Gawain."

'Dagonet is rubbing off on Bors.' Arthur thought, evisioning the tall, quiet healer. Dagonet was the eldest of the boys at seventeen, and the most adept with weaponry. It was he that had been teaching Gawain the axe.

The Gentle Giant, as he'd been dubbed, could be heard calling out encouragement. He was teaching some of the younger boys how to ride a war charger-many of them had only rode horses from their tribes, old, weary packhorses or docile mares. There had been three broken arms and four sets of cracked ribs in the first week of what Bors called "Proper riding."

Closing his eyes, Arthur pictured Pelagius in his mind, the kindly old face of the man he thought of as a father soothing and calming. He would have to try in this post as well as he could.

'_They're not warriors_. _They're_ my _warriors_.'

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Please review. 


	31. Black Is The Colour

_**Black Is The Colour**_

"Black is the colour,

Of my true love's hair,

Her lips a-..who's there?" Galahad paused in his room, fingers suspended over the lyranthe. He was sure he'd heard something. With a shrug, he went back to playing softly, the mournful tune floating into prying ears.

* * *

"Come on, Gal!" 

"No." '_How did they find out?'_

"Aw…come on pup! I'll buy ye a beer when we get back."

"No." '_I bet it was Tristan_.'

"Galahad, come on!"

"No." '_He_ heard _me!'_

Arthur chuckled, patting Galahad's shoulder reassuringly. "Galahad, I command you."

'_To the Hells with it. They want a song….I'll give them a bloody song.'_

A murderous expression stamped on his features, Galahad stood up, turned to face the rest of the knights, opened his mouth, and began to sing.

"Black is the colour,

Of my true love's hair.

Her lips are like, some roses fair

She has the sweetest smile,

And the gentlest hands,

And I love the ground,

Whereon she stands.

I love my love,

And well she knows.

I love the ground whereon she goes,

I wish the day, it soon would come,

When she and I

Can be as one.

I go the to climb

And I'm old and weak,

For satisfied, I never can be

I write her a letter,

Just a few short lines,

And die a death a thousand times.

Black is the colour

Of my true love's hair,

Her lips are like,

Red roses fair,

She has the sweetest smile,

And the gentlest hands,

_And I love the ground, _

_Whereon she stands."_

Red faced, the youngest threw himself in between Gawain and Lancelot, who both clapped him on the shoulder. Silence. Many of the knights sat, mouths open. Lamorak quickly wiped something from his face.

"The boy has some pipes." Dagonet mumbled appreciatively. "Why did you hide them?"

Galahad shrugged, burrowing his face into his woollen scarf. Tristan pushed from the tree he had been leaning on, a smirk on his face. "He also plays the lyranthe."

Tristan slept with one eye open that night.

* * *

Based on the Song, "Black Is The Colour", by Paul Weller. I do not claim rights to the song!

But i claim rights to the plot.

Please Reveiw!


	32. Anguish Inside A Sanctuary

Anguish Inside A Sanctuary.

* * *

Rain pelted against the pale skin, eyes welling and overflowing with tears, hidden by the raging storm. Brown curls dripped and dropped with water, shivers that wracked him shaking the freezing liquid from the strands.

Hurt. It was as though some huge hole had been ripped into him, agony welling in his mind and chest, an emotion so potent that it drove the young man to his knees, mud coating his shins and knees, arms wrapped around his chest as though to hold in the screams that welled up in his stomach, trying to rip his throat open in noise.

Small, choked sobs fell from his lips as he crouched over, bowing his head, blocking his throat and coming in short gasps and bursts of keening. The rain pounded the mud around him, the small clearing the only sanctuary in this world of hate, battle and pain.

* * *

"Where you been?"

"Out."

"Where?"

"Around."

"Galahad?"

He turned, eyes dull.

"Is this your happy face?" A weak attempt at a smile with deadened eyes and a heavy heart.

"Yeah."

* * *

Might not be updating on anything for a while. Sorry folks. 


	33. In The Snow, Continued

In The Snow. Cont. 

With a grin, Tristan looked into the sky at the snow, delight dancing in his eyes. He loved the snow. Galahad huffed, shaking the snowflakes out of his curls as he mulishly regarded the scout. "What's got you all cheerful?" He grunted, shifting on his horse and shivering, realising that he might actually have to wear breeches-a practice he detested.

Galahad raised an eyebrow as the dark man pointed skywards, an incredulous, "You're happy because of the snow?" Issuing forth from cold, chapped lips. Tristan nodded, looking back towards the skies. "S'like home." He said quietly. "Mountain passes get blocked this time of year." The youngest didn't say anything, watching the Scout with wide eyes. Tristan had never mentioned home before.

He didn't mention it again.

* * *

"I'm cold!" Galahad groaned, rubbing his legs hard. "I'm really, really cold!"

"We're all cold, Gal." Gawain soothed, tossing the younger man a saddle blanket to cover his legs. "It's called 'winter'."

"Wear breeches instead of that skirt, and you might not be." Lancelot suggested with a wicked grin. Tristan snorted with laughter as he cleaned his sword.

"You got any spare blankets Brooding Boy?" Galahad snapped, wrapping his own blankets tightly around him. "If'n I did, you wouldn't be getting' 'em." Tristan muttered, casting a dark look at the unsuspecting knight. Chocolate eyes surveyed the ground and booted feet dragged snow towards him. Slowly reaching down, Tristan gathered the snow into a large ball, already cold fingers now numb.

"I'm co-_ARGH!"_ The shriek echoed around the pass, sending roosting birds into flight as the knights fell about laughing.

Galahad was soon warm-chasing Tristan around with his own snowball. It was winter at Hadrian's Wall.

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Inspired by the climate over here at the moment in Hadrian's Wall Country, as it's freeeeezing! I'm wearing (please bear in mind i'm in my shop...) fur boots, a leather and fur coat and several layers. (please ALSO bear in mind it is FAKE fur.)

And it's snowing in sporadic bursts.

It's also pitch black.

Please review!


	34. Bad Bird

Requested by MissBubbles- Some thign with Tristan's Bird and Lancelot.

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Bad Bird. 

The sunlight slanted gently through the gap in the heavy woollen drapes that hung over the window, hitting the handsome dark haired knight in his closed eyes. "Mmf…g'way…" He mumbled, throwing his arm over his eyes and rolling onto his front, burrowing his head into the duck-feather pillows and groaning loudly. The sun, however, continued to play her game, and eventually, he gave up and rolled out of bed- "TRISTAN!"

The roar echoed along the corridors and along the halls, including, echoing into a messy room, where two young men looked at each other, bewildered.

"What did you do?" Bedivere asked nervously. The dark haired eighteen year old who lay sprawled on his stomach on the other bed raised an eyebrow and shrugged, looking over to his falcon, who sat on her perch, preening herself with, dare he think it, pride. The shout came again, and this time, a young man with a shaven head and a new, vicious cut down his face poked his head around the doorframe. "What did you do, Scout?" Asked Dagonet, eyes questioning. "Nothin'." Tristan murmured in reply. "Nothin' at all that I know of."

"I'LL WRING IT'S BLOODY NECK!" The shouts came closer, and Tristan sat up, looking to the door. Lancelot barged in, holding his breastplate. Brandishing it wildly, hair on end with sleep, the handsome man yelled, "She shat on my bloody armour-_again_!"

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The sun set slowly, red spreading over the hills and greenery of the land. A young man and a bird stood on the ramparts, looking out over the scene. "Bad bird…" he chuckled fondly, stroking the plumed chest, a soft smile on his face. "Same tomorrow?"

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Short, i know. Sorry for those who want longer snippets.. i'll try.

Please Review.


	35. Grassy Mounds Before Me

**Just a random idea I had at work. It's a bit off the wall, for Galahad. Y'know, deep thought and all.. (joke! I luff him.)**

**Disclaimer; Thought it was time for another one of these; I OWN NOTHING, PLEASE DON'T SUE ME!**

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Grassy Mounds Before Me. 

**I**'m not sure why I'm here again. I'm always here when I can't sleep. Nowhere else; just here. The graves are grassy mounds with the silhouettes of swords striking upwards against the skies, my own breath adding to the ethereal atmosphere as it leaves my lips in clouds. It's my sanctuary. Tristan had his attic, and I have the graveyard. I know I'm smiling sadly as I think of Lancelot, whose burnt and charred armour lies no more than three feet away from me. "Galahad, you're too morbid." He would chuckle every time I came into the tavern with dew on my boots and grass on my person. "The dead'll tease you in the Plains." I would always nod, taking my seat next to Gawain at our usual table, burying myself in wine. It was always our way, to honour the dead. To visit their resting place once they had passed on. The other knights had seen our town with gaping mouths, having mainly come from Nomad tribes. Our tribe had settled long ago on the shoreline, turning eventually into a port. I missed that place with my whole heart, but knew that should I return, no one would remain that I knew. The Huns had invaded sometime after I'd gone, killing almost everything as they went. There was no chance of survival.

**S**o here I am, still in Britain, on this Island. Sitting in the usual spot between Lamorak and Dagonet. My two father figures. It sounds silly to say now, but that's what they were to me. I always felt at ease around them, even in a battle. The sky could be falling on our heads, but if I was with Lamorak and Dagonet, I would think it a normal day. I remember watching Lamorak die, knocked savagely from his horse and onto a lance in a battle. I'd frozen then, only to be sharply slapped by Dagonet, who got me moving again. I'd killed more than I care to remember out of fury that day. And then there was Dagonet's death. I screamed as I shot arrows across that ice, hoping against hope that there was some chance of him surviving. I knew that there wasn't, but that hope clung fiercely to me, even as Bors cried, "Help us!"

**I** come here to think mainly, about the lives we lead before the first death. The camaraderie that comes with living with the same men for a year in training, the growing up we did, the times we cried with one another, the times we dragged one another home after a rough night. We were all brothers of the same blood, tribes united under one banner of slavery.

**T**he others call me Pup. I know I'm the youngest, I know I can be a pain, but I sometimes winder if I'm not stronger, ready to sit here and talk to my fallen family, ready to face the fact that they're dead. We'll all see each other again, I know that. I just wish they hadn't had to die in the first place. It's childish and sulky to blame Rome, to hate it as I do, but they stand for a world that is impossible to create and maintain. It will never be; all that is certain, is these grassy mounds before me.

**

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Please Review. **


	36. Presents

Presents.

"Galahad, you have to stop being so angry about everything."

"No, I don't, anyway, this Roman was cheeking me, so-"

"Does this have a point, Galahad?"

"-so I says to the Roman, 'Look here you..'-What's that?"

Gawain chuckled, ruffling Galahad's hair good naturedly. "'Look here you what's that?' I'll bet he was terrified, Gal." The younger knight grimaced, tugging the shoulder length blonde hair of his friend. "I mean, what are _they_?" He pointed to their beds, where small, burlap wrapped parcels tied with string lay.

Gawain frowned, shrugging. "Don't know."

Galahad sat down, putting his parcel on his lap and taking off the string, unfolding the rough cloth carefully. A frown crossed his young features. "What?" Gawain asked bemusedly. "What was inside?"

A bean bag.

"I don't get it." Galahad said confusedly, squishing the bag in his fists as Gawain laughed.

"You don't get it? It's a stress bag. When you get angry you're supposed to play with them!" Gawain hooted, tears of mirth blurring his vision at the outraged expression on the young mans' face. The hilarity stopped abruptly when Galahad pulled an ornate comb from the package on Gawain's bed.

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"'Ere! Dag!" The tall, quiet man turned to Bors, still holding the woollen, ear-flap adorned hat in his hands, a bemused expression on his face. "You can read Latin, can't ye?" Bors asked, thrusting a box into the Knight's hands. "What does it say?"

After a moment, Dagonet looked up, smiling. "Wha'?" Bors asked, eyes narrowed suspiciously.

Clearing his throat, Dagonet read, "'Labelling Kit- Stamp your name on your property; pottery, clothes, animals, slaves'…and.." He paused, laughter beginning quietly. "What!" Bors asked, "What does't say?"

"And children."

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"Where you been, lass?" Murmured Tristan, holding out his arm affectionately for his Hawk. "What you been doing?" Ascending the stairs into the barrack quarters, he murmured gently to his girl as they walked, only pausing as he opened the door to his room. A curious look flickered across his dark eyes as they fell on a leather skinned parchment book that lay on the small table at one side of the room. A soft frown, punctured by a good natured smile at the title and the beautiful bird on his arm was disrupted by rarely heard laughter.

"Social Skills."

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"Arthur!" Lancelot called, traipsing the hallways searching for his commander,

"Arthur!" Turning a corner, he ran into a small woman, knocking her flying. "S-sorry; here." Lancelot stammered, helping the beautiful woman up and handing her back her washing. "It's alright, it's not like it hurt." She chirped cheerfully, smiling up at him. Lancelot felt his stomach flip. "Err.." He drooled, trying not to leap on her. "What's your name?"

"Elaine; maybe you can help me.."

"Of course!" He jumped in, "Anything!"

"Good," she smiled. "I'm looking for a man named Lancelot. Arthur hired me; said something about personal assistant." Lancelot could have yelled for joy.

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"…Now, after that's settled, I want to know what you thought about your presents." Arthur grinned, leaning against the Round Table, an unusually impish grin on his face. "After all, it is Christmas!"

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Random little snippet I thought of when wrapping gifts for my family! Please review! 


	37. Comparison

**Short Tristan ficlet -thank you very much to all my reviewers; don't be offended that i don't relpy to reviews; i just don't have the time! Sorry, and i hope you enjoy!**

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Comparison.

The dark blanket of night glittered, the bright light of stars casting a ghostly light with the harvest moon. The forests lay silent and undisturbed, save for the nocturnal beasts that hunted this silent land, the dark and green a constant reminder to the man under the outcropping that this was not his home. The small, meagre fire that burnt merrily beside him as he lay on his side lit his sharp, handsome features, dark braids hanging low over his face, earthy eyes raised to the stars, searching for something. The stars were beautiful this night, clearer than they had been for a long while. He thought about his tribe, and whether any of them were among those brightly burning jewels. It was highly likely.

A sudden cry rent the air, and while the man was slightly startled, the only movement giving it away was the brightness of his eyes flashing to the area it had come from. A hawk swooped downwards, landing feet away from him, cocking it's head, eyes fierce and expectant. Silently, he handed it a strip of dried meat and held out a hand, letting sharp claws dig into his skin. Gently, carefully, his other hand untied a small scroll from the magnificent bird's leg, and as his hawk flew upwards to a tree to roost, he unrolled the small note and read the carefully inscribed Latin there.

'_Make for the mountain pass tomorrow. Saxon reports. Do NOT engage with any.'_ A soft smiled turned the corners of the bowed lips ruefully; '_do NOT engage'_. Everyone remembered what had happened the last time that had happened. It had been eight weeks before he could leave the fortress with attendants.

A sigh escaped him as he lay back flat on his spine, tucking his hands behind his head as his legs twined deeper into his bedroll. This is why he loved scouting. The outside of it all. The endless vast space with whispering trees and gurgling streams. The animals that hunt and those that flee. This land, Briton, for all it's seeming harshness and hate, was a beautiful place full of marvels that Sarmatia could never have. Making a snort of derision, the Scout reminded himself what he loved about Sarmatia; the flat, rolling plains and the wild, difficult steppes. His land was one of raw, powerful strength. This land was dangerously wild. The fire snapped a little, and his eyes flicked to it, checking that it was not about to spit sparks. Those same eyes shone in the firelight, his stark tattoos against weathered, tanned skin, high cheekbones and handsome structure defined in the firelight. Lids slowly sliding down, he pulled the saddle blanket more firmly around himself, resting his cheek on his arm. He may not be in a land that his blood was born in, but that same blood had been spilt more on this turf. The comparisons were endless, '_But_', he thought as his eyes closed, '_this is where I die.'_

_

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Just a short ficlet I thought of in the car on the way back from a family visit. I was looking at the stars at the time! (I wasn't driving..)_


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